


A brief and tentative excursion

by yaseanne



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Action/Adventure, Implied Underage, Languages and Linguistics, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 16:09:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaseanne/pseuds/yaseanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite what fate may think, this is not a quest to follow Yassen Gregorovich around the globe.  (Except it might be.)<br/>Movie!verse</p>
            </blockquote>





	A brief and tentative excursion

**Author's Note:**

> God I hope they don't sue me again for this.
> 
> EDIT: I've taken off the Underage and Graphic Descriptions Of Violence warnings and put up a CNTW instead. Alex is well over the age of consent when anything sexual happens. There are still descriptions of violence in the fic, but it's no worse than, say, a Bond movie.

1\. Hamburg, Germany 

The first time, he almost doesn’t recognize him. He has been to what feels like a hundred summer parties, drinking a thousand cokes and spending a minor fortune on sweet apples and roasted almonds, casually connecting the dots on his small map of Europe. So far it looks like a Sagittarius symbol, and he is right at the tail. 

He’s trying to retrace his uncle’s life via his passport entries. Up until now he has limited himself to Europe, but only because it is infinitely harder for a boy to travel alone to Singapore than to Seville. 

He should never have come to Germany. Hamburg is neither as provincial as he feared, nor is it as inviting as he dared to hope. Fortunately, he does at least speak the language. It’s a vacation of sorts, one with an existential background, and he feels both too young and too old.

The train to Hamburg is packed with football fans in varying stages of drunkenness; from his compartment Alex can’t tell whether their team has won or lost. The man he shares the compartment with is completely uninterested in the fans. His gaze never leaves Alex as he lays out his conspiracy theories.

“Of course,” the man opposite him said. “They’re everywhere. There are spies standing in line at the supermarket. Spies sitting next to you on the bus.” Alex blinks, feigning attention and trying desperately not to burst into laughter. “They’re not only humans or animals. Some are things.” The man leans forward and gestures wildly. “They can be anywhere! Phone booths, trains, anything…”

The address and date of the annual fair are one of the entries in Ian Rider’s notebook There is no chance that his uncle was here professionally; the MI6 agents were thorough in the clean-up after his uncle’s death. But it’s a place he had visited as a civilian, and besides, it’s only a _fair_. 

Things never happen as they’re supposed to. Alex steps from the bus, enjoys half an hour on various rides and a hot cider, and just as he’s about to get something to eat, he sees Yassen Gregorovich leave the fair, a dark-haired woman on his arm. All thought of contacting the police or the MI6 are drowned by simple curiosity, and he follows them to the parking lot. She is overdressed for a country fair, wearing high heels and a bottle green dress, and she talks animatedly, gesticulating. 

He can’t hear what they’re saying, only fragments – “drei Jahre” and “selbstverständlich, aber… Angelegenheit bereinigen…” 1

The darkness provides additional cover as he creeps closer, slinking from one car to the next. Soon he’s close enough to hear Yassen’s reply – “… mein Problem. Der britische Nachrichtendienst hat nichts gegen mich in der Hand, und Ian Rider ist-” 2

At the mention of his uncle’s name, Alex involuntarily backs up – and something behind him clatters and falls over. Both Yassen and the woman freeze and glance in his direction, and Alex does not stand a chance; he’s made six steps before Yassen catches up with him. A weight on his back brings him down, and he’s rolled over. There is a brief moment of recognition, and Alex can see anger, then sadness, flicker over the Russian’s face.

“Bring ihn her!” calls the woman, and Yassen yanks him up, grips his arm and leads him over. From her purse, the woman pulls a gun. 3

Unfortunately, she recognizes him, even though he has never seen her in his life. “Du bist Ian’s Neffe,” she says, and chuckles, “oh, so ein glücklicher Zufall.” 4

They push him into a silver Mercedes and while Yassen starts the motor, the woman trains her gun on Alex, never wavering once in the twenty-minute journey to a dim-lit side street with a grey stone wall to one side. 

She leads them to a wooden door in the wall. “Hier durch.” 5 She motions Yassen. This might be his last chance to escape, but he doesn’t dare – not when Yassen Gregorovich is not taking his eyes off him. Inside, a tarnished train track is flanked by a stone path on both sides; small pipes run the whole length of the wall. He is lead a few steps into the tunnel, then she produces a pair of handcuffs and orders Yassen to cuff him to one of the pipes. Once the cuffs snap shut, she lowers her gun. 

“Wie hast mich gefunden?” she asks. Alex shakes his head and shrugs. 6

“I can’t understand you.” 

The woman narrows her eyes.

“What are you doing here?” she asks sharply.

“I’m on holiday.” He smiles at her. Her answering smile is cold. 

“Don’t play games with me, boy.” She turns to Yassen. “Pass auf ihn auf. Ich regle das Problem mit Felix.” Pocketing the gun, she walks back to the tunnel exit. 7

Once she is gone, Yassen turns to Alex. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks harshly.

“I just couldn’t forget you,” retorts Alex. Yassen stares at him until Alex rolls his eyes and says, “I found the address in my uncle’s notebook. I wanted to see where he’d been.” 

“You should not trust MI6.” 

“Are you saying I should trust you instead?” He gestures at the handcuffs. Yassen hesitates, then he steps closer and reaches into his pocket. Alex half expects to see a weapon in his hand, but it is only a handful of keys jingling on a ring. Yassen frees him without looking at his face and cautiously, as if he were consciously trying to avoid touching Alex. 

“And now?” asks Alex warily. _What about the woman?_ he wants to ask. _What about my uncle, what about…_

“Now you leave. Quickly. And don’t look back.” But Yassen belies his words, it’s he who leaves first, silently, as though an invisible enemy were chasing him. 

 

2\. Moscow, Russia 

“We have to stop meeting like this,” he says, and Yassen sighs and looks away. Alex tries to reach something, anything other than the seat of the chair and his own arse – his _almost naked_ arse – but the ropes don’t stretch that far. He strains the muscles in his legs, tries to kick out, to bring his feet together or further apart – _bad idea_ – but it does not work either. 

He probably looks exactly like what he is – a customer in a shady sex club that sells drugs under the table and guns in the back room. And ties the unwelcome patrons up in the attic. Dear God, he will never live this one down. He can read the tabloid headlines already – _English Schoolboy Victim Of Russian Extreme Sex Practices_. The fact that the person who is tied up across from him is a Russian man twice his age does not help.

“You should not have followed me,” says Yassen. Alex would rather bite his tongue than admit the Russian is right. 

“ _You_ followed _me_ ,” he replies. Technically, both are correct: Alex has been following Yassen – for longer than Yassen knows, or he would be more annoyed – but Alex had been the one who entered the bar first. Of course he had recognized it for what it was, but this was a darker part of town, and no one had looked twice at him. He had planned to stay inside, have a coke, pretend to watch a stripper whilst really observing Yassen through the window. He had not counted on the Russian actually entering the building. 

And when Yassen had gone upstairs, he’d had to pursue him, and that meant he had needed to get a woman to accompany him. They kept a careful distance from Yassen and his contact, and Alex made sure to take the adjacent room. Of course, the presence of the woman (blonde, long-legged, and probably thrice his age) was a problem.

He played along for about ten seconds, thinking he could do both, sleep with her and listen in to Yassen, but as soon as she cupped him through his boxers he waved her off and pressed his ear to the wall.

The wall was very thin, but at first he could barely understand anything. Then the voices got louder, and whilst he didn’t know the language, he recognized the tone. The dark-haired man was angry, Yassen was angrier, a heavy object fell to the ground. Someone moaned, there were more shouts, then a loud crash. Alex hesitated only a second. _He saved your life_ and natural curiosity won out over _he’s an assassin_ , and he was gone, half-naked and simultaneously holding up his trousers and banging against the neighbouring door. Which was open, and he had not known what to expect, but this was almost certainly the worst possibility: Yassen was tied to a chair which had fallen over, and the dark-haired man was holding a gun, and Alex was stumbling, tripping over his pants, crashing through the door to the floor. It didn’t take long until he too was tied to a chair. 

“Do not move,” was the last thing the man said before he left the room, and Alex moved before the door was fully closed, but the knots were expertly done. He felt extremely foolish, but there was no reason to let Yassen know that. 

“What are you doing in Russia?” asks Yassen. 

“What are _you_ doing in Russia?” The answer is a glare from steel blue eyes. 

“I was born here.” 

“In this club?” And okay, maybe he is playing with fire here but the other man is tied to a chair. He has to bait him when he is given the chance. But he’d better not overdo it. 

“Coincidence,” sighs Alex. “I saw you at the airport. And who is this guy?” 

“None of your business,” snaps Yassen. Then he gives him an unreadable look. “So you did follow me.” 

But while he is searching his mind for an answer that won’t leave him looking like an idiot, Yassen has twisted and wriggled and when he gazes up Yassen is free – is standing up, stretching his legs. Alex blinks, and a gun is at his temple. He swallows and opens his mouth to placate the assassin, to talk him out of what would be a highly embarrassing death, but something makes him stop, a calmness in Yassen’s eyes and posture. He realizes Yassen is provoking him. He tips his head to the side and stares back. 

The gun disappears. Yassen nods and pulls back. “Apologies,” he murmurs. “A force of habit,” as if it were every day that he held his fellow captives at gunpoint – well, maybe it was. 

Yassen touches his boot and reveals a small knife. He reaches forward, around Alex, crouching and leaning in until Alex can see the grey flecks in his eyes, and for a second he has a completely crazy idea; he forgets to breathe, everything inside him focused on the space between them. Then something is dropped into his hands, a cold metallic object – the knife handle. 

Yassen smiles, as if they shared a secret, and backs away, and Alex slumps in his chair. His fingers close around the knife and he starts rubbing the edge against the rope around his wrists. Yassen picks up his belt and shirt and leaves without looking back. 

Two minutes later Alex escapes, but he gives up the idea of following the dead trail before it has even fully formed in his mind. Instead he pockets the knife and walks straight in the direction of the nearest airport. Despite what fate may think, this is not a quest to follow Yassen Gregorovich around the globe. Maybe in one of the places on his list he can regain his sanity.

 

3\. Athens, Greece 

This time it’s Yassen who finds _him_ , and if he weren’t puking his guts out he would definitely show his appreciation, but right now his mouth is tasting of dirty Piraeus port water and he’s probably poisoned himself and will die within a week. Once he’s done he realizes two things; one, there had been a hand on his back that he hadn’t noticed that is now gone, and two, the owner of said hand is laughing.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, and tries (and fails) to glare at Yassen.

“People like to tie you up,” answers Yassen. 

“They don’t if you’re not around,” he fires back. “How about you teach me how to get out of these situations?” He’s joking, at least he hopes he is.

“I would have to tie you up first,” says Yassen dryly; and because he just nearly died and is not feeling particularly suicidal today, he doesn’t reply. 

This time he isn’t handed the knife but Yassen himself cuts the ropes. There are two loud splashes as the blocks of concrete disappear into the sea. 

“I though this only happens in bad mafia movies,” says Alex thoughtfully. The Deus Ex Machina at his side is silent. 

Yassen’s car is a black Lamborghini Murcielago that looks and feels a bit like a wet dream. Alex is amused.

“Aren’t you supposed to blend in?” He gestures at Yassen’s brightly coloured shirt and sunglasses. “How does the car fit into that?” Not that he’s complaining, but people are turning their heads.

“I’m just a rich tourist,” contends Yassen. “They won’t remember my face, only my clothes and my wallet.” 

They drive back to the big city, towards the sliver of light that is the Acropolis illuminated by spotlights. Alex squirms in his seat; it’s a warm night but the wet clothes are uncomfortable and the leather doesn’t absorb the water.

Yassen leans over to open the glove compartment and passes Alex a file. The first page is a summer holiday shot, a beachfront house in the background, four people surrounding a balding man on a striped chair. Two bikini-clad women, a young boy with a terrier on his lap, and another, a long-haired man. 

“Have you seen any of the people in the picture?” asks Yassen. 

Alex shakes his head. None of them look familiar, or suspicious. “Who are they?”

“The man in the centre is Iannis Papadopoulos, a small businessman. He owns a few companies. Nothing big, but a comfortable cushion. Your uncle was sent to investigate him seven years ago.” 

Alex starts. He thought he’d been trailing his uncle’s footsteps, but it seems his uncle is still trailing him. “Why? What did they have on him?”

Yassen points at the file. “Look at page seven.”

Page seven is a handwritten report, signed “IR”. “About two hundred kilograms of cocaine,” reads Alex. “International operation – British market – cases of violent deaths following drug deals- He was a drug dealer?”

Yassen nods. “A major one. Or so they thought. Before they could find anything conclusive, the government ordered MI6 to pull Ian Rider out. But Papadopoulos knew it was only a matter of time before someone came after him again.”

“And when he found out that I’m in Greece he thought I’d discovered something and sent someone to have me killed.” It makes sense, but it only reinforces his wish to never see the MI6 again. They have interfered with his life so many times. “All right, I get it now, but- why are you here?”

“A former employer called me. By chance, I recognized Papadopoulos at the port and followed him to his villa. He in turn recognized me and set his security people on me.” 

Alex knows what that means for the Greek. “So he’s dead,” he concludes. Yassen’s hands tighten on the steering wheel.

“No,” he says after a pause. “He has surrounded himself with bodyguards and hired someone to take us both out. Stelios Manakis. I do not know him personally, but I have heard of him. I followed him to the pier where he left you.”

 _I saved your life – again_. Alex can hear the unspoken words, even though he knows the Russian would never say them. 

“Thank you,” he says softly. Yassen’s expression is unreadable. After a moment, he replies, “You’re welcome.” He glances at Alex. “We have to work out a plan to deal with Papadopoulos.” 

“Together,” says Alex. It’s not a question. It seemed he wouldn’t be told that it was none of his business.

“Yes,” Yassen acquiesces. “We’ll need a few things.” 

“Some dry clothes would be nice.” Alex sighs. “We can’t go back to my hotel – it’s probably under surveillance.”

“I’ll see whether I have something that fits.” The idea of wearing Yassen’s clothes – clearly too big, but still – is making him feel weightless, suspended. Thoughts race through his mind – where will they be staying? How do they deal with Manakis? Would Yassen kill him? Was underwear included in the clothes deal? 

***

The receptionist obviously doesn’t care that Yassen takes a sodden boy up to his room; she doesn’t even blink when they pass her. 

Yassen’s room is on the first floor, conveniently close to the stairwell. Once inside, he puts the file and his guns on a table and opens the suitcase that lies on the bed. Alex gets a quick glimpse of clothes, but Yassen knows what he is looking for; he hands Alex, one by one, a pair of white trousers, a grey shirt, grey socks, and a pair of boxers. 

“There’s a shower.” He points to a door on the left. 

The shower is refreshing and Alex is glad to lose the stink of fish. That he now smells of Yassen’s shampoo and hair gel is a bonus. Putting on the boxers, he can’t quite contain the blush he successfully hid when Yassen handed them to him. 

There is a certain appeal to the Russian, a quality in his appearance and attitude that fascinates Alex beyond the undeniable attraction he’s felt since he first saw the man. It was easy to blame the circumstances under which they met for his intense reaction, but even now his pulse quickens when he thinks about Yassen. He brushes the thought aside and picks up the rest of the clothes. 

The trousers are supposed to be Capri trousers, but they reach his ankles; the shirt however fits him perfectly. On Yassen it must outline every muscle. He checks his appearance in the mirror before he leaves. A bit inelegant, but comfortable. Yassen looks up when he enters the room. 

“You already have a plan, don’t you?” asks Alex, towelling his hair. Room service has been there; dinner is laid out on the table, the file on Iannis Papadopoulos lying between two plates. 

Yassen nods. From the file he takes two sheets of paper and a street map. 

“This is what we will do…”

It’s not the most dangerous thing he’s ever done, to sleep in one room with Yassen Gregorovich, but he’s still nervous. There is a coldness to him, an aura of unpredictability that makes his enemies shrink back, and it’s what ultimately convinced Alex that the man was indeed a killer. But every so often his eyes would soften when he looked at Alex and the reserve would not vanish but connect them instead. 

He doesn’t really think that Yassen would kill him in his sleep, but he knows, instinctively, that he won’t wake up as the same person. He wriggles and draws the sheets closer. From the other side of the room, Yassen growls, “Go to sleep, Alex.” He stills and goes through the plan once more in his mind. When he’s convinced that they are prepared, he tries to clear his mind and listens to the Russian’s breathing, unconsciously imitating it, drifting deeper and deeper into sleep.

In the morning he wakes early to the cool air drifting through the hotel room and the shouts of taxi drivers outside, and he wonders whether he’s drugged. In the bed next to him, Yassen is snoring softly. He doesn’t get up yet; he rolls over on his side and watches the other man sleep. His restlessness and the need to leave England, to _goawayleaverun_ have vanished, he feels like he’s been transformed into energy and set burning, a perpetuum mobile that invented itself. Yassen cracks one eye open and mumbles something rude, and Alex’s smile widens. It’s a good day.

The hotel breakfast is tasteless and hurried, the coffee too strong for Alex’s taste and the orange juice too stale. Yassen is dressed impeccably in a light shirt and blue jeans. Alex can’t stop touching the fabric of Yassen’s – now his – clothes. They leave the hotel to purchase a typical tourist’s wardrobe and slightly different garments in another store. Yassen pays with new drachmae notes and puts the clothes, neatly folded and tag-less, into a sports bag that he hands to Alex. They keep to the back streets, passing the time until midday. After a quick snack, phase one begins. 

In a public toilet –one of the nastier ones, unfortunately – Alex changes and reluctantly throws the old clothes into a bin. Outside, Yassen sizes him up. 

“You’ve got your mobile?” Alex nods. Yassen must notice his nervousness; briefly, he touches Alex’s shoulder. “It will be fine.”

He gives an ironic wave and sets out. Alex swallows and waits a few seconds before he tags along. Now Yassen is doing his best to be visible; he saunters down the busiest streets, talks energetically to the vendors and even pauses to have a few words with other tourists. 

About half an hour into their stroll through the Plaka he sees the man Yassen had described the night before: slender, with a sharp nose and thin lips, an ordinary tourist whenever he’s directly or indirectly in Yassen’s line of sight, but a bit too focused on the other man. 

Alex follows the two for ten minutes just to be certain, Yassen leading them on a zigzag path through the labyrinth of alleys. Once he’s sure he reaches for his mobile and dials the number Yassen has given him. He lets it ring twice, then disconnects and assesses his surroundings. The alley is crowded with tourists and merchants. A few hundred meters ahead the street splits in two; the left alley leading up to the footpath that surrounds the ancient monuments, the right leading into the city. Yassen chooses the right path and casually looks around.

They drift through the crowd for a few minutes, then Yassen sends the signal. In his pocket, Alex’s mobile vibrates. He suppresses the instinctive flinch and hurries his steps, closing in on Stelios. He can already see it on his right side: a small passageway between two buildings, empty. It probably connects the alley they’re in to another. This is it, the perfect opportunity. 

Yassen mimics hesitation, slowly entering the passage. Stelios pursues him, right hand reaching into his pocket. Alex catches up with him; he’s just one step behind the Greek when he turns into the alley. Yassen still has his back to them and is walking slowly. His hands are at his sides, visibly empty. Stelios however has drawn a gun from his pocket and is lifting it. Alex ducks, lowering his centre of gravity. Thoughts flit though his head, of failure, being just one second too late… 

Stelios’ gun points at the Russian’s head, the safety still on. Alex takes a deep breath and aims a kick at the Greek’s head. His foot connects, and Stelios stumbles. Yassen instantly turns and draws his own gun. In two steps he’s in front of the Greek and has pulled the trigger. The shot is followed by a moment’s silence, then someone shouts. 

“Go,” says Yassen. Alex nods and hastens back into the bigger alley, doing his best to blend in – which means staring in the direction of the passage he just left and putting on a worried expression. He walks backwards a few steps, then sidesteps a vendor’s cart and enters a bigger street, not turning to see whether Yassen is behind him. 

For a moment he is hit by the bizarreness of the situation – he is a fourteen-year old who was nearly murdered twenty-four hours ago, Yassen is most likely carrying a fake passport, and people have probably already found Stelios’ body. 

“This way.” Yassen suddenly levels with him and guides him towards a souvenir shop. Inside, the Russian feigns interest in wooden windmill replicas and steers them to a small room behind a glass bead curtain. 

The room is crammed with boxes and shelves that dig into his back, and there’s not a foot between him and Yassen. They bump into each other as they struggle out of their shirts, Alex changing from his I-love-Greece shirt into a washed out one that depicts a Greek band. From his trouser pocket, he draws a bright yellow bandana and knots it around his neck. Yassen puts on a black cap and a multicoloured button-down shirt to conceal the pale blue one underneath, handing his leather jacket to Alex. They pause to measure each other up, and Yassen nods, apparently satisfied with Alex’s transformation. He turns back to look through the curtain.

This close, Alex can smell the Yassen, can feel the assassin’s heat as if the warmth of hundreds of summer days was stored under his skin. He catches himself with his tongue between his teeth, inches from licking the sun magic from the nape of Yassen’s neck. 

Before he can give in, Yassen whispers, “It’s over,” and steps away. 

They blend in flawlessly with the tourists. Occasionally one of them points at a landmark or they stop to admire self-styled handmade jewellery. Alex purchases a small stud earring, and in the mirror he can see Yassen smile behind him. He’s tempted to buy an Acropolis postcard and send it to MI6 - _thank god you’re not here_ \- but it’s only idle fancy. In the distance, sirens die away. 

The alleys smell of oleander and pine and he stretches his hands to let his fingertips graze the walls, and feels a little drunk on the world. In a little under one hour, they will go to Iannis Papadopoulos’ villa and execute the second part of their plan, but for now they’re perfect tourists, and Alex is caught up in the rush of success, of working with Yassen.

***

It takes ten minutes to drive from the hotel to the Papadopoulos villa, but they wait an extra hour for the sun to set. Alex makes out three figures in front on a low stone wall guarding the perimeter, and Yassen points out another man, an almost invisible silhouette against the night sky. 

“Stay behind me,” he whispers as they exit the car. Silently, he crosses the street and presses his body against the wall. Alex keeps an eye on the guard that’s closest while Yassen draws a knife. In a swift move, he slits the first man’s throat and leans over the wall to kill the second who only manages a choked breath before he falls down. 

Alex stays in Yassen’s shadow; together they round the wall and approach the small iron gate. The remaining two guards have not noticed their partners’ absence, they pace the path leading to the villa’s main entrance. Yassen creeps up to the man on the left and takes him out. The last guard turns towards him, lifting his gun, but Yassen is faster; he steps behind him and puts a hand over his mouth before he draws the knife’s edge over his throat. He lets the body fall to the ground. 

The whole manoeuvre has taken only a few minutes, but Alex feels like he’s run a marathon. Yassen, on the other hand, is not even out of breath. 

Pocketing the knife, he pulls out one of his two silver guns. Almost carelessly, he points it at Alex and something like ice spreads thorough his veins. Then he realizes Yassen is only checking the clip. Satisfied, the Russian holds out the gun, handle first, to Alex. 

He’d told Yassen, yesterday. Sitting at the small table, he’d swallowed his unease and confessed, “It’s not the hitman. But I don’t- I can’t kill Papadopoulos. Not if I-” Yassen hadn’t let him finish the sentence.

“You won’t have to do it.” 

Alex had lowered his gaze onto the table. “I may have to, one day.” Become a killer. Yassen had not replied immediately, then he had said, gently, “You can choose your own future.” 

Today, he accepts the gun. 

Yassen draws the second gun, and they separate. Alex is moving stealthily to the window of Iannis’ daughter’s study; Yassen is slinking towards the door in the yard that leads to the kitchen. Alex has five minutes to get into the house and the living room. Of course it’s closed and locked, but the glass cutter makes quick work of the window, and he carefully lowers himself into the study. He circumvents a dresser and chair and holds his ear to the door. Silence. He opens it a fraction and finds the hallway dark and deserted. Ten steps down the hall, the door to the living room is ajar. He risks a quick peek; the balding man from the picture is reclining in a heavy armchair, reading a magazine. 

Alex doesn’t have to wait long. A slight whisper announces Yassen’s presence on the other side of the room, behind Iannis’ back. The Greek looks up.

“Tula? Isse kala?” [8](%E2%80%9D#8%E2%80%9D) His brow furrows and he closes the paper. He’s halfway out of his seat when Yassen steps around the chair. 

“Kali spera, Iannis,” he says. Iannis’ eyes widen. [9](%E2%80%9D#9%E2%80%9D)

“Ti thelte?” he exclaims. When Yassen aims the gun at his head, he shouts, “Ja onoma tu theou!” He raises his hands to pacify the Russian. “Then ftaio ego!” [10](%E2%80%9D#10%E2%80%9D)

Alex steps out from behind the door, training his gun on the Greek. 

Iannis turns and his eyes light up. “You’re alive!” His lips curve into a smile and he relaxes. “So nice of you to bring him to me,” he says to Yassen.

“What’s going on?” asks Alex sharply, glancing at Yassen. 

“You have been deceived. Your friend here has lured you to me.” Iannis grins. “Good work, Mister Gregorovich.”

“What?” Alex’s spine goes cold. His gun hand trembles, and he’s a split second away from turning against the Russian, even though he can’t quite believe Iannis’ words. Yassen’s expression does not betray any emotion.

“He was the client I came to see. He offered a lot of money and in return, I was supposed to-” Yassen breaks off. Guardedly he continues, “I was ordered to kill you.” He gives Alex a long look. “I refused. He decided I was a liability, and tried to take me out.” 

His lips are pursed, and his knuckles are white on the gun handle, and Alex had wondered what it would take to break Yassen’s composure. Now he has his answer. In the split second before disillusionment hits Alex and his mind can register that he’s been betrayed, played, a look like defeat crosses Yassen’s face. Yassen turns back to Iannis, and trains the gun on his head.

“You cannot do this!” states Iannis. 

He blinks and looks down, at his desk, at his gun. Alex notices, but so does Yassen, who fires at the suddenly crouching Greek and – misses. Iannis shoots Yassen instead, and Alex desperately points his gun at Iannis. But he can’t kill him. And as Iannis realizes this, he smiles. Slowly moves the gun to point at Alex. 

Suddenly, Alex can see it all play out, as if in slow motion: Iannis will shoot him, he will fall to the floor, bleeding on the carpet. He’ll see Yassen who is dying somewhere behind him, for good, and the satisfaction in Iannis’ eyes, and then he will grow cold and die and the MI6 will forever close his file. Trapped, Alex can’t move.

 

Alex’s ears register the gunshot only after he sees the bullet penetrate Iannis’ body. A few drops of blood hit him, the trickle of red liquid runs down the Greek’s chest. He stands motionless, eyes locked on Alex’s, as if it were Alex himself who shot him. Then he collapses onto the floor. 

Alex is shocked. He still can’t move. Never mind that Iannis had been seconds from killing him – he will never get used to seeing death him in the face. He feels painfully young, and when he turns to look at Yassen, the man must see it in his eyes. 

***

“We have to leave Greece as soon as possible,” says Yassen. “Iannis had many friends. And they will be looking for popular faces, faces like ours.”

They’re hurriedly packing, back in the hotel room that had been a sanctuary only this morning. Alex already hates it for being the place where they will separate. Yassen is firing orders, advice, at him – stay low, use a fake ID, leave Greece by ship, give me the gun, stay away from the MI6; all of them summarized in what Yassen doesn’t say: grow up. 

Alex knows that to cold-bloodedly kill a man, or stand by while he is killed, is not a sign of age, but he can’t help but feel inadequate. And he can see it in Yassen’s eyes, can see how the other man is suddenly distant, almost regretful. In a brief moment when they both move to touch the bloodstained clothes, he can see what he’d speculated about before. That Yassen had seen him as a partner, had thought of Alex as _his_ , now. It must be frustrating for Yassen, to be attracted to who Alex will become, but be repulsed by who he _is_. 

Giving up has never been Alex’s strong point, and he plays with the thought of just – trying. It’s not like he can make things worse. But when he compares Yassen-now with Yassen-before, he doesn’t dare. The moment has passed. 

And once again, it’s Yassen who walks away, the leather jacket carelessly slung over his shoulder. Alex doesn’t worry though; he knows they will meet again.

 

4\. London, England 

It’s four in the morning and four years later when the doorbell rings and he’s already in the hallway and has opened the door before he’s awake enough to recognize the figure on the doorstep.

“Jesus,” he says. A ghost of the past, a murdered fantasy.

“Not quite.” Yassen laughs at him. He looks impossibly younger, wearing a leather jacket and carrying a supermarket bag.

Alex doesn’t say ‘but you’re dead’, but it’s a close thing. Because this is impossible, he saw the man die in a plane years ago, but he’s also here, right in front of him, and “- real?”

“Flesh and blood.” Almost casually, Yassen reaches to brush a strand of Alex’ hair behind his ear. Just as casually, he continues, “Heart and mind.”

Jesus. That’s something he should have remembered, the way Yassen used words like knives and band-aids to take your breath away. And before he can even process the thought – danger! – Yassen is inside and walking past him, obviously familiar with the design of the flat. Alex looks down at himself and quickly grabs a bathrobe before he joins Yassen.

It’s bizarre to see the man who’d been his enemy five years ago and who was presumed dead prepare Thai food in his kitchen, taking ingredient after ingredient out of the seemingly bottomless shopping bag. 

“You are easy to find,” says Yassen while he chops an onion and fries some meat. “Too easy. You have made some enemies and MI6 can not protect you in your home.” There go mushrooms and bean sprouts. “I have heard that friends of our friend in Greece have made enquiries about you.” Alex can only stare as the meal is prepared and nod numbly with each further piece of advice. 

He’s itching to properly touch Yassen, to reassure himself that he’s not hallucinating. He can’t remember receiving a blow to the head, but he _had_ been half asleep. Maybe he is still in his bed, dream weaving an X-rated Martha Stewart scene.

 

At last, Yassen rolls a couple of oranges across the kitchen counter towards Alex and motions him to sit. 

“Isn’t it a bit early for dinner?” asks Alex. Though it’s not like he’d been sleeping. He probably has the weirdest sleep rhythm of any teenager in England. 

“The ferry was on time. And I thought it would take me longer to fly the remaining distance.” 

“Back up- you _flew_?”

“Yes. My helicopter-”

“Your _helicopter_?” 

“You were not protesting when I used it to save you.”

“I’m not protesting now. Where did you park it?” Surreptitiously, he steals a glance through the window at the backyard. It’s still too dark to see anything. Yassen would just be capable of landing it on the roof and popping downstairs for a quick chat and not-breakfast.

The food is excellent. Yassen Gregorovich – spy, assassin, chef. 

“Where is your friend Jack?”

“You don’t know?” counters Alex. 

 

Alex is no longer working for MI6. He’s become too famous, his name and face are well-known in certain circles. Besides, he’s eighteen now, and while he’s good at his job, his dislike for it means he’s not one of the best. MI6 could afford to royally reward him (half of which went to Jack who is sending postcards almost daily from locations like the Titanic Museum and Cano’s Castle) and give him back control over his life. 

Alex is actually pretty sure the last time he left Alan Blunt’s office the man was glad to see him go. It may or may not have to do with the mess he made of Blunt’s files while he was waiting for the older man to show up. Smithers’ gadgets had come in handy one last time. 

“They will never stop watching you,” warns Yassen. Alex shrugs.

***

“Do you play snooker?” 

They’re standing in the kitchen which is suddenly too small, Alex’s no longer sleep-befuddled mind trying to find a way to keep Yassen here. 

In response, Yassen smiles.

 

Of course Yassen lets him take the first shot, after lining up the colours. 

“So you faked your own death.” Alex’s shot doesn’t quite split the reds.

Yassen shrugs. 

“Best way to stay alive.” He’s a careful player. 

The back-and-forth is familiar, in a way, and Alex can lose himself in the rhythm of the game. “What have you been up to the last four years?”

Yassen is so difficult to define; four years ago he’d been enemy and partner and the subject of Alex’s wet dreams and vengeance fantasies. He’d seen the man laugh and kill and had been so close to him that he could count the freckles on the nape of Yassen’s neck. It’s difficult to remember that he should, maybe, hate the man. He’d come to know him too well.

They’re testing each other with safety shots, venturing out to barely brush the balls and immediately retreating back to safety, hiding. Alex waits for Yassen to show his hand. And his body reacts to Yassen as if the last four years had never happened. 

It’s obvious. A hand on the small of his back, on his shoulder, breath against his neck. It’s a dare, and a game, and it’s serious, because he could ruin it with one word, or he could go along and still wake up with a part of his soul missing. 

He’s four years older and hopefully wiser – he’s always been able to protect himself, but not from himself. 

 

It’s like snooker, in a way. The current shot is not the result of the one before, or the one before that, but of the very first one. It’s a carefully planned strategy, ever-changing to react to outer circumstances, but at a certain point things become almost inevitable. And no matter how shoddy the table is, how dirty the balls, it’s always the player’s own actions that decide the match.

Alex is winning.

He’s racked up a break of forty-three, and he’s got a lead of twenty points, with only the last four colours to go. If he pots the brown, Yassen will need foul points to win. It’s not Yassen letting him win; Alex is doing it all by himself. Brown, Blue, Pink – all potted while he can almost feel Yassen’s breath on the back of his neck. 

The black falls perfectly, and Alex steps back, right into Yassen. Fleetingly, he can feel electric currents spreading through his body and every inch of his skin that’s in contact with Yassen becomes super-charged. Neither moves until Alex relaxes infinitesimally, just lowers his shoulders. 

A sharp turn, and he’s trapped between Yassen’s body and the cue. His hands move instinctively to rest on Yassen’s arms, not-quite breaking the hold. The larger man guides him backwards until he’s pressed against the table.

“This is a bad idea,” says Yassen softly. 

“It's why you came here,” retorts Alex. Abruptly, Yassen recoils. 

“I came to see whether you were all right. And to warn you.” He’s staring at Alex, willing him to believe, and Alex nods even though he can see that Yassen himself doesn’t believe it. 

“You’ve waited four years to come,” says Alex. As a response, Yassen leans in.

He’s a bit more muscled than Alex, and still a few inches taller, and he tastes of the oranges they had for dessert and vaguely of tea. He’s also not hesitant at all. Behind him, Alex can hear the cue clatter onto the table, then a hand buries itself in his hair and another settles on the small of his back. 

And this – this is exactly what he’d dreamed of. Yassen is demanding and almost desperate in the way he devours Alex. 

He’d thought – in those day-dreams, years ago, when every turn around a corner was just another possibility – that he’d be coming within seconds of Yassen touching him. But he’s not fourteen anymore. Granted, Yassen isn’t Dave Hartwell from the football team, either – he definitely knows what he’s doing. And he’s not nice – he doesn’t wait for Alex to regain some composure. 

“Just a moment,” exclaims Alex, and holds up a hand. “When you say you loved my father…”

“Your father was a very _straight_ man,” answers Yassen. 

“Thank God.” Alex pulls him closer. “This could have been awkward.”

He can feel Yassen smile and gently nip and bite his lips and he laughs at the assassin and with him. Yassen is humming a little, unconsciously, not a tune but a faint, almost purring sound of satisfaction. Alex’s laughter turns into a moan when Yassen cups him through his jeans and just rubs, almost lazily. Then he quickly opens Alex’s pants and slips his hand inside, resting it on Alex’s hip as if to give him a last chance to back out. 

“I’ve done this before,” says Alex. It’s not that he’s inexperienced. It’s just that this is Yassen.

“Then you know what comes next,” replies Yassen. He tugs both pants and boxers down, and follows the motion through until he’s crouching in front of Alex, level with Alex’s crotch. Gradually, he leans in to breathe softly against Alex’s cock. Alex is staring down, eyes locked onto Yassen’s. Who doesn’t blink, just licks a slow path up Alex’s cock.

“Oh fuck,” says Alex, and the table is holding him upright a bit, from the waist down. His hands grope frantically at the green cloth, latch onto the cushion. 

He doesn’t last long, it’s both Yassen’s obvious experience and his own excitement and the sight of the assassin kneeling before him, strong hands kneading his arse. He comes with a choked sob, aftershocks coursing through him while Yassen sucks and licks until Alex drags him up. Finding the taste of his own come in Yassen’s mouth is deliciously exhilarating. 

**

There is a moment, sometime between Alex stripping Yassen and the soft thump as two bodies hit the mattress, when Alex feels buoyant, every nerve tangled in the spider’s web of a moment that stretches endlessly. Then Yassen draws one hand carefully over his back, following the line of his buttocks, and tugs them both one step closer to the bed. 

It’s thrilling, and the feeling is only enforced by the knowledge that this was, in a way, inevitable. Inspired by years and years of fantasies about the man, Alex tugs Yassen’s shirt off, letting his hands roam over his chest. 

And there it is, just a few inches under where Yassen’s heart must be: a small sickle-shaped scar. Alex tentatively runs his fingertips over the smooth skin. “The Kevlar didn’t stop it completely,” murmurs Yassen. 

Actually, Yassen has surprisingly few scars; he is very good at staying alive.

Alex thinks he can still taste Greece on Yassen’s skin, sharp and electrifying. He follows the trail of hair, leaving little bites against Yassen’s stomach and sides. Poised over Yassen’s cock, he hesitates, just long enough for Yassen to cup his head and draw him back up. 

“But you-” he doesn’t get to finish the sentence, Yassen silences him with a kiss. Then he presses something into Alex’s hand. Alex breaks the kiss to looks down, and blushes. It’s a bottle of lube.

“I’ve never – I haven’t done this.” He feels vaguely embarrassed, but it’s not like he’s been preparing for this day, or saving himself up. It’s just coincidence. 

“It’s easy,” says Yassen, and in one fluid move flips them over until Alex is staring down into Yassen’s face. 

Carefully, almost methodically, Yassen takes the bottle and coats Alex’s fingers with lube. Alex knows what he’s to do, but he’s enticed by Yassen’s cock, his flanks, he’s dripping lube all over Yassen’s crotch and he’s afraid there’s not enough left when he slowly enters Yassen, opening him, until –

“Hngh,” groans Yassen. 

“Good or bad?” Alex bits his lip. 

“Good,” pants Yassen. He’s moving, infinitesimally, rocking his hips back and forth. Kneeling between Yassen’s open thighs, Alex feels powerful. He twists his fingers, pulls them out and pushes back in, plays with Yassen until the assassin grows impatient and reaches out to grab his shoulder. 

“Now,” he says. 

It’s tight and hot and a bit like coming home, and Alex is breathless, every muscle straining. Trying not to come right then, right there. He moves carefully, a slow roll of his hips, leaning down to nip at Yassen’s throat while his hair tickles the assassin’s face.

“Sasha,” whispers Yassen, and Alex smiles against his neck.

“Fuck. More,” commands Yassen, and Alex is only too happy to oblige. 

***

He’d known, somehow, that it’d happen, but he hadn’t thought he’d have to wait four years for it. It’s the moment after the hurricane, the shattering of the glass that never came, the tower that never fell. After the last breath comes, amazingly, another breath. 

Alex breathes and inhales the scent of sex and sweat and Yassen and destiny.

 

 

 

 

 

1 Three years… of course, but… settle affairs…  
3 … my problem. The MI6 has no evidence, and Ian Rider is…  
2 Bring him here!  
4 You’re Ian’s nephew… such a lucky coincidence.  
5 Through there.  
6 How did you find me?  
7 Keep and eye on him. I’ll take care of Felix.  
8 Tula? How are you?  
9 Good evening, Iannis.  
10 What do you want? For the love of God! – This is not my fault!

*fins*


End file.
